


I'm having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time (I think I've forgotten this before)

by RoadkillJackdaw



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morons, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Beta We Die Like Stregabor Should Have, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, We'll update as we go folks, Winter At Kaer Morhen, vesemir has custody of geralt's last braincell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoadkillJackdaw/pseuds/RoadkillJackdaw
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier part ways for the Winter. As the white wolf spends his time at Kaer Morhen, here are 5 ways he remembers his bard (and 1 way the bard remembers him).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 98





	1. Did an elephant stomp on your ear?

No matter the distance between the two of them, Geralt mused, Jaskier always found a way to be with him. 

Usually it was in the form of a song penned by the bard that would echo from other musician’s lips in taverns. They were never as good as the author himself, but Geralt would rather fight a barrow wight whilst tied to a chair than tell him as such. Sometimes, it was odd trinkets or garments that he had left in the witcher’s saddlebags by accident, which Geralt would only find weeks and weeks later when drying out his pack from a sudden rainstorm. Once, it was in a sketch of a cornflower that Jaskier had left strewn around the camp. It was a simple doodle, unsigned, undated, but beautiful in it’s unpolished nature. 

(Geralt wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. Nor why he’d kept it so well hidden in his bestiary.) 

This time, however, it was nothing physical that reminded Geralt of the bard. The two had separated for the winter three days past and set out on their separate ways; Geralt to the north, Jaskier to the south. Oxenfurt awaited the bard with a semester of study on some form of Elder poetry and had promised free food and board for the return of their prized pupil. The witcher had his own commitments to keep within the crumbling walls of Kaer Morhen, so they bade each other farewell with the unspoken promise of reunion when the snows melted and the verges swelled with the promise of spring bulbs. 

Jaskier had looked at him, eyes bright against the early winter mist. His pack was strapped across his back with his lute dangling as it ever did from his right shoulder. 

“Until we meet next, dear heart.” He gave a wink and rolled his shoulder. “Do try and stay out of trouble whilst I’m not there to get you out of it, eh?”

Geralt stepped forward to fidget with the lute strap. It had taken the witcher some time to grow used to not flinching whenever someone entered the same space as him, but after three years travelling with Jaskier he found himself able to tolerate it, even enjoy it. And now, here he was, reaching forward to fix his bard’s gear like it was nothing. 

“You need to take care of yourself, too. You fix that strap any looser and you’ll lose it in the mud.” He grunted with no real menace. He let his thumb linger beneath the worn leather for perhaps a moment longer than it needed to and paid close attention to the brocade of Jaskier’s over-shirt. The way it caught the light, how it felt beneath his fingers, the pattern of the metallic cord at the wrists and neck. 

“Have a little faith in me, Geralt.” The younger man laughed, a noise that made Geralt feel lighter than he had in an age. It took years off him when he heard Jaskier’s mirth, or so it felt. 

“I’ll give you as much credit as you deserve.” Jaskier seemed to raise his eyebrows, eyes flicking down to where Geralt still had his hand on his chest. 

“Geralt, I…” He trailed off for long enough to inspire Geralt to notice his own dawdling nature. 

“Right.” He tried to recover. “You’d best be off. There’s no shortage of road between here and Oxenfurt, and I know better than you do how much you hate sleeping on the road side. Get moving while there’s light.” 

“At once, dear.” Jaskier murmured absently. His eyes didn’t seem to leave the collar of Geralt’s tunic, uncharacteristically modest. The simple sound of his sigh as Geralt withdrew his hand almost echoed of regret and apprehension. Perhaps it was too forward, the witcher thought, to presume he could touch the bard in such a way? Maybe the troubadour was still in some way uncertain over the idea of his personal space in relation to Geralt. Maybe, even after all these years, the older man still frightened him a little. The thought stung him more than it should have. 

Not that that had ever stopped Jaskier from following him in the first place. But people, Geralt was aware, change. 

And maybe the same went for his bard. 

He stepped back to gather himself and cleared his throat under the guise of sniffing the air. It was a gesture that never failed to make Jaskier smirk, and today was no exception.

“Another winter apart. I shan’t be surprised if by the time we meet next you’ve gone completely feral.” 

“I’m not feral, Jaskier.” Geralt intoned. He resented the word, fearing it fell too close to the vernacular of “beast”, “mutant”, or “butcher”. Not that Jaskier had ever called him as such. It was a thought that brought him comfort during even his darkest times. If someone as apparently defenceless as Jaskier believed he was a person worth spending time with, maybe his humanity wasn’t as lost as he feared. 

“Did an elephant stomp on your ear? You’re perfectly human at the moment.” Jaskier jerked his head towards the northern horizon. “It’s spending a whole winter among the wolves of Kaer Morhen. Hanging around Lambert for any amount of time would make the sanest man howl at the full moon.” 

They laughed. Geralt’s heart felt a little lighter upon understanding the joke. It was something he was trying to relearn about humans and their humanity; the difference between laughing with him and laughing at him. Whilst the bard did no shortage of the latter - be it when the witcher fell over in the mud, when the pair were drenched through on the Path, when Geralt frightened a particularly vicious thug - there was never the slightest hint of malice towards the witcher. No, it was simply… comradery. Solidarity. Geralt would do the same, would their roles be reversed. Jaskier gave him another grin, a beautiful lopsided thing that was more truthful than most of his works. 

“See you around, Geralt.” 

And they parted. Their paths would take them but a few days to traverse if they kept to the main roads. The benefit of Roach and being of tougher stock meant it was more likely Geralt would reach his destination first, despite being closer to Oxenfurt than the Kaer Morhen keep. With a strangely heavy lump in his chest, he turned his mare north, and set forth to leave his heart behind. 

And now, Jaskier haunted him. His words tumbled over in Geralt’s mind over and over again to burn through his psyche into his very soul. “Did an elephant stomp on your ear?”. It was one of the bard’s tamer jabs - are you daft, did you hear me, are you dense? It was a melodic way of asking if he was quite right in the head. Elephants, pah. He’d sometimes mutter to himself as he set up camp, or was on the road, or taking a drink from an ice ringed stream. Elephants. 

It was hardly the most poetic thing the bard had come out with. Be it his womanising charm or scathing wit at their feckless husbands, Jaskier was seldom at a loss for the right words to woo or wound an individual. His reputation was well earned. And yet, of all the things Geralt had overheard him say, it was a comment about elephant’s feet that kept his heart warm as he skirted the mountains of Kaedwen. 

The pass was open enough to traverse with minimal difficulty, for which he was grateful, and almost bitter. He could have had a few days further south, staying in some shitty inn at an even shitter backwater town, listening to familiar music wash over him and wash it down with watered down ale… 

It had been three days since the crossroads before the grey walls of the keep loomed into view. There was no figure on the battlements to greet him, no torch lit by the gates, not even a wisp of smoke to mark the presence of another soul. Geralt felt his stomach clench for the briefest moment before seeing a figure emerge from the nearby woods. The kindly face of Vesemir greeted him, warmth and comfort in an otherwise lifeless place. His arms were laden with half a dozen rabbits and marked the spoils of a successful set of snares. 

“Good to see you, pup.” He clapped a gloved hand against Geralt’s shoulder and led him beyond the walls. The lightest dusting of snow crunched beneath their feet and revealed dark stone below, not yet heavy enough to justify tapping into their reserves of grit salt. “Tell me of your year. How is the south?” 

“Better than expected. People have been kinder, less tight with their coin. Certainly it's been easier to buy a bed than usual.” 

“I’ve heard similar tales.” Vesemir gestured through a side door that sat between the main hall and the kitchens. “Strange for the path to change in such a short time. Remind me to thank your bard, should I ever meet him.” 

“He’s not my bard. He’s a pest with a few cheap songs and the wits of a lemming.” 

“Of course, of course.” Vesemir smiled. “Now go and unload poor Roach, divines know she’s walked far enough with your fat arse on her back. Then come back in for supper and tell me everything.” 

Geralt went to call an insult after his old teacher, but found he could not bring himself to do anything other than grin - the first time he had smiled since parting ways with “his” bard. He returned to the yard to unload Roach and settle her. The stables were as he remembered - leaking on the east wall and shored upright with rough cut timber. It was currently empty of any other horses and marked him as the first of his three brothers to arrive him. That being said, it held a trio of goats along with enough tack and kit to give Roach the rubdown she deserved before leaving her to rest with some oats. The familiar smell of horse, goat, and most importantly Kaer Morhen wove around Geralt as he worked. It was a blanket that even without weight welcomed him back, and he found his shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t for the last few days' journey through the mountains. He had made it. 

He was home.


	2. South end of a north facing horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaer Morhen becomes a little less lonely.

It was a matter of days after Geralt's arrival at Kaer Morhen that the weather took a turn for the worse. The wind shrieked, the cold bit deep, and the ground went from shallow mud to sharp clefts of frozen dirt and clay that were murder if you tripped on them. The empty windows in the lesser used parts of the keep screamed and whistled as gales slid through them, and the windows fortunate enough to be intact spent most of the day covered in a film of frost that grew thicker and bolder as the days wore on. The sky was grey during the daylight hours and clear at night, offering no buffer of clouds against the waning moon.  
Geralt’s quick pace and travelling light meant that he’d made excellent time, no doubt about it, but the absence of his brother’s worried him. It was unusual for him to be the first back, and even more so for Coen, Eskel and Lambert to be so late. 

Though he’d never admit it, it was clear Vesemir was worried too. He was making more excuses to go up and check the walls surrounding the keep’s south perimeter as if hoping to get a glimpse of his three pups. 

“It’s possible they’ve found somewhere else to stay for the winter.” He said one night at dinner, where he and Geralt shared a pot of stew at one of the low wooden tables in the kitchen. It seemed hardly worth the firewood to heat the main hall. Geralt nodded, unsure who his old teacher was trying to convince. 

“True. No doubt Lambert lost track of the days and is living it up in a convent in Toussant. Or maybe he’s shacked up somewhere with his Cat witcher friend. Adam? Ainsley?”

“Aiden.” Vesemir corrected, shrugging a shoulder. “The trouble the two of them cause together…. He’d be better off spending the season naked and lost in the woods. But far be it from me to tell him how to live his life.”

“Vesemir, that’s _exactly_ what you do.” They chuckled together, returning to their food. Geralt cleared the plates once they were done and went to part ways for the evening. He bade his teacher goodnight, resting a hand on his shoulder to give a gentle squeeze as he did so. 

“They’ll be alright. They’re just late, that’s all.” 

Vesemir gave him a wan smile and wordlessly went on his way. Once he was out of earshot, Geralt sighed and made his way to his room in the south east of the keep. 

The corridors were pools of darkness but cleaner than they had been a week ago; the recent layer of stray leaves and brick dust had been swept away under Geralt’s care. Maintaining the building was a job even a team of witchers would need a whole season to do, so Vesemir simply closed off parts of the keep when it was just him from spring to autumn. When his pups returned, there was firelight and stories and even laughter, despite the haunting memories etched deep in the stone. But without the pups there, the place lay near silent. 

Geralt’s footfalls echoed as he made his way up to the stairs and paused as he fumbled with the catch on his door. The damp air and the cold made the wood warp and swell in strange ways that took nothing short of a kick to get it to open. He’d find a plane and smooth the sides down in the morning, he thought, shutting the door behind him with a sigh. 

Looking around the room, it was enough to make him miss life on the road. It was a nice enough place, but like much of the keep, it held no life. A handful of books, some tattered curtains, a half barrel he used to wash clothes beside a water basin. There was little in the way of comfort. Jaskier would have been mortified. 

This brought him a smirk. Jaskier would never dream of letting himself stay in somewhere so cold or uninviting - the fire would be lit, the curtains a richer colour, papers and garments strewn from one end of the room to the other. The bard was a travelling explosion of noise and vibrance, he’d make the place homey in a charming flash of his smile. 

As Geralt set alight a lantern and a few candles about the room, he allowed his thoughts to stray to Jaskier more. It was likely he’d be spending another ten weeks here, allowing him to stay through the worst of midwinter and descend through Kaedwen after the pass had safely reopened. But even with the long stretch ahead of him, and it barely being ten days since he had left Jaskier at the crossroads, he found himself incredibly conscious of the bard shaped hole in his heart. 

He checked over his shoulder as the thought crossed his mind. Now he knew he’d been spending too much time with Jaskier - he was becoming sentimental. But it didn’t make it any less true. He missed the way the younger man’s lips would part in shock when he’d been insulted, how he’d tip his head back with laughter at a filthy joke, how he was convinced he could juggle whenever he drank too much gin… 

Geralt found himself standing before the window and peering through the warped glass. The sight was objectively stunning. The average human may not be able to see as well as he did, but from this height he was able to see across the treetops for miles. The angle of the mountains give an unobstructed view of the valley below, a spectral forest beneath a diamond studded canvas of the night sky. Geralt fancied that if he stood there for long enough, he’d see the shapes of the very animals themselves moving through the woods - 

And he could. A single shape, a black outline against the frosted forest, moving towards the keep. As it moved it became clearer; a man on a horse traipsing slowly along the dirt path. It lurched slightly in the feeble moonlight, exhaustion dogging it’s steps. Nonetheless, it staggered on, their pace steady and maintaining course. 

Geralt’s face split into a grin. He’d recognise that silhouette anywhere. Lambert. 

He grabbed his cloak from where it had dried before the hearth and charged out of the room, taking the stairs as fast as he dared. He thought about grabbing Vesemir from his own quarters, but sheer excitement dictated he made straight for the gates. His teacher would understand. For all he knew, Vesemir was already on the walls. 

The cold sucked the warmth from his chest the second he stepped outside. The wind had stilled enough for him to see the clouds of his breath before his face, but it barely slowed Geralt’s pace. From across the courtyard he could see Lambert through the gate, perhaps a stone's throw from the wall. His posture changed as he caught sight of Geralt and he snapped upright to raise an arm in greeting.

Geralt couldn’t begin to hide his joy and tilted his head back to howl. Lambert, not even having his horse break stride, did the same. The pups howled in greeting - to each other, to the keep, to their home, to the moon itself. Their voices echoed around the stone into the forest beyond, intertwining into something hauntingly beautiful. It started low, a bass in each brother’s chest, before building into a sound both powerful and ethereal. 

A third howl joined them from further away, up on Geralt’s right on the western wall. Vesemir had indeed been upon the walls, and made his presence known to the younger pups with his own voice. The wolf’s song made Geralt’s heart soar, and for all his years lived and adventures had, he had known nothing else like it. It was family. 

The two brothers met in the middle of the courtyard. Lambert climbed down from his horse’s back - Scorpion, if memory served - and embraced Geralt with bath arms. His abrasive nature fell away, just for a moment, as Geralt hugged him back and grinned into his cloak. 

“Took you long enough.” Vesemir grunted as Lambert switched the focus of his attention. 

“Yeah, well.” Lambert gave a dry laugh. “When I thought of the hard work you’d lump on me, suddenly staying in the middle of the backwoods didn’t seem so bad.” 

For all his cheer, Geralt saw through his brother’s facade. There were dark circles under his eyes, a fresh cut on his chin, and his descent from Scorpion lacked the usual grace. He was practically drained and looked fit to sleep on the very stones he stood on. 

“You look like the south end of a north facing horse.” He intoned with an air that would suggest complacency to anyone who didn’t know him. Lambert knew Geralt well enough to see the statement as an invitation either for an explanation or a defensive barb. Never one for change, he chose the latter. 

“Oh, did you spend the summer in royal courts? Where’s all this flowery language come from? Vesemir, you didn’t tell me the famous white wolf was leaving us to become a bard -”

“Inside, the pair of you.” Their old teacher huffed and steered him towards the door. “I’m not getting any younger and it’s fucking cold. Geralt, see to that nag, won’t you?”

“Nag? Have a little respect!”

The two bickered as they made their way to the kitchens. Geralt chose not to protest, preferring Lambert get somewhere warm to sit down before he fell down. Scorpion looked dead on their feet, and he led them to the stable beside Roach. They bumped noses in greeting as he saw to removing the worn packs and saddle. He took a moment to paw through the bags - they were light, holding little in the way of supplies. Interesting. It wasn’t like Lambert to have so little in the way of kit when on the road. 

Geralt shook his head and quickly rubbed down Scorpion before dumping a blanket over their back. He’d muck out the stalls in the morning. For now, his brother was home. And that itself was a weight off his mind. 

The fire in the kitchen had been stoked back to life and a pot of water suspended from the soot blackened chain above it. Lambert raised his eyes to his approach. 

“You took your time. Knew you got on better with horses than anything, but I’m starting to take it personally.” For all his ribbing, he nodded a thanks and shot him a half smile. Geralt returned the gesture and threw a pack of dried jerky he’d found in the saddlebags. 

“Forgive me for not wanting to be around you until you’ve bathed.” 

“Some things never change.” Vesemir grunted, almost to himself, ladelling some herbs into the hot water. “Glad to have you back, Lambert.” 

“Good to be back.” Lambert unwrapped the jerky and chewed on it gratefully. “Wasn’t sure I’d make it before the pass closed. It’s been a hard journey.”

“So it seems. Care to share? Do you want that chin looked at?” 

Lambert waved a gloved hand to rebuff his teacher’s offer, but accepted the cup of steaming tea slid towards him. He took off his gloves and wrapped his hands around the unglazed clay. 

“It’s already as good as it’s gonna get. Nah, I got held up near Caingorn pass. Some ice golems having too much of a good time near a mining village. Took longer than I’d like to get them dealt with, nearly cost me my sword.” 

Vesemir said nothing, but nodded solemnly. His face was impassive, expression carefully controlled. Geralt couldn’t say for sure what went on behind those eyes but if he had to guess it would be grim acceptance. There would be a time every witcher wouldn’t make it back from a hunt, and there’d be another empty room in the keep. At best, they’d have a funeral in the same way as the witchers who came before them. More likely than that though they’d be left to rot in whatever wilderness they’d met their end in. If they were lucky their sword would make it back, if it wasn’t sold by some scrote who came across it first.

The Path claimed everyone, sooner or later. 

Geralt shook his head as if to physically dislodge the dark thoughts taking root there. But not tonight. Tonight, his brother was home. 

They stayed up for hours, subtly feeding the newest arrival everything he desired to chase the gaunt shadow from his cheeks. They swapped stories, jokes, tales of contracts and updates from the corners of the world they’d visited. Somehow, Lambert seemed abreast of Geralt’s most dangerous jobs. 

“Have you been so bored you’ve resorted to spying on me? Are you that workshy?” Geralt jested. Lambert rolled his eyes. 

_“The white wolf he comes, bearing destiny’s storm, our stalwart protector, his road stretching on…_ ” He sang clumsily and let the notes hang in the air til Geralt caught on, dissolving into a snicker. “Your jobs are being broadcast across the Continent thanks to that feckin' bard of yours. How come I don’t get the pretty boys following me to the ends of the earth?” 

“What, Aiden not pretty enough for you?” Geralt said with no real venom. There was no sense reminding Lambert that Jaskier wasn’t “his” bard, so he saved his breath. 

“Can’t say I mind the songs, even if they are about you. Makes the ladies look twice when they see a witcher.” Lambert said with a wink. Vesemir groaned, heaving himself up from the table. 

“I’ve had enough of the pair of you for the evening. Get some sleep. Or don’t. Just don’t wake me.” He left with a wave over his shoulder and the two shared a chuckle. The door drifted closed behind him, leaving the two men alone before the ember filled hearth. 

“I should get some rest too. Now the Continent’s most notorious prick is back, who knows how much rest I’ll even get.” 

Lambert didn’t even look up from his cup, flipping Geralt his middle finger and drinking deeply. 

“Missed you too.”

“Likewise.” 

Geralt made his way back to his room, disappointed to find he’d let the candles burn down to nothing. In the pitch darkness he decided he could barely be bothered to change his clothes, let alone fumble around for fresh oil for the lantern. He shucked his still damp shoes, trousers and shirt, before blindly grabbing for the looser grey under trousers he often slept in. The bed creaked comfortingly as he climbed beneath the blankets. Finally. 

Lambert was home. And had heard of brother’s exploits even hundreds of miles away. Geralt allowed himself a smile in the darkness. He was forced to agree with Jaskier - there was power in a song. Even if the tune was off as his brother warbled it off key around a mouthful of jerky, the words held weight. 

He’d even give the bard credit for some damn fine insults. South end of a north facing horse indeed. 

Geralt wondered how else Jaskier’s turns of phrase would stay with him for the winter. He turned over in his half warmed bed and thought of how he wanted to share the tale of the wolves howling homecoming with him. He wondered how his friend would no doubt immortalise it in some overly romantic song, spinning a tale of reunion and primal joy. As he remembered the swelling pride he’d felt within his chest when the three of them howled into the night, Geralt realised there was no one better suited to capture it than Jaskier.

Maybe Jaskier was Geralt’s bard, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems to be well recieved, so feel free to drop me a comment! Kudos are love, and you are beautiful Take care.


	3. Not the brightest pixie at the bottom of the garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the three brothers make it back to Kaer Morhen.

Then, came the snow storm. 

And it kept coming. 

“Fuck this for a laugh.” Lambert spat from under his hood. He’d taken to tying his scarf around his neck to keep the hood in place, which more often than not left his nose sticking out in a comical fashion. Geralt didn’t mention it. The snow blew around them in swathes, reducing their vision to barely a few feet in any direction. It stuck to beards and skin, collecting in drifts if either brother stood still for too long. Geralt could feel it melt and re-freeze as it was absorbed into the wool of his trousers. 

“Hurry up and we can be inside sooner.” He grunted and shoved the barrel once again. The two had been tasked with rotating the casks between the cold store and the kitchens, pairing the labour with bringing up one of the many barrels Vesemir worked on over the summer. Neither of them had any idea what was put into them, but whatever came out of them was a strange reddish-brown and had an alcohol content high enough to make a mortal man’s head spin like a top. For as long as Geralt could remember, it had been referred to as “Ardent” - possibly a reference to the sign that could knock a foe on their ass. Whatever the origin of the name, it was a godsend during the coldest days of winter and it kept the blood warm no matter how bitter the chill became.

Vesemir was hunched over the long table when they arrived back at the kitchen, crushing something in a mortar with a pestle worn smooth by decades of use. He nodded in greeting and gestured towards a bundle of rags on the table. 

“Get warm, but don’t get too comfy. We’ll have company soon enough.”

“Company? Vesemir, the pass is closed.” Lambert grunted and unwrapped his face. “If Eskel was going to join us, he’d be here already.” 

Geralt sucked a short breath between his teeth. True, Eskel still hadn’t made it to the keep. Whilst he had more experience on the Path than himself or Lambert, there was still a worry in the air at his absence. A sadness. And sometimes, late at night, when it seemed the dawn would never come… an apprehension. 

He shook the thoughts from his head as Vesemir continued. The bundle twitched and produced a beak.

“This morning I would have agreed, until I found this bugger in the yard. Some hawk, half battered and almost frozen. She had a note tied to her leg from Eskel, explaining the fool got caught in a contract south of Sodden - I’ll let you read the details. Anyway, he’s bargained with some sorceress to get back.” 

Lambert moved closer to the hawk whilst holding out a hand to pull back the fabric. The beak snapped and he snatched his fingers back with a start. 

“Don’t harass her. She’s had a hard time.” Vesemir tutted as Geralt snickered. “Anyway. They’re portalling in at sunset, so I need the courtyard swept free of snow and scaffold. I’ll help after I’ve patched up our newest guest.” 

He tipped the contents of the bowl onto a small saucer and slid it towards the bird. She eyed the brothers with malice and moved towards the saucer to gulp at the paste within. It smelled of burdock and apple skins and ground black pepper, but she choked it down with gusto.

“Why does it need to be swept? Since when did we give a shit what some stuck up mage thinks of us?”

Vesemir folded his arms to raise his eyebrows at the pup. 

“Portals use magic.”

“Right.”

“Which is in itself, chaos.”

“Vesemir, I’m not -”

“Chaos is, by definition, unpredictable. And often harmful.”

“-a child, you don’t need to tell me -”

“And mirrors can exacerbate this unpredictability.”

“-that magic is harmful, look at what we do for a -” 

“Frozen water, such as snow, can have incredibly small mirror-like properties.”

“-living, for crying out loud.” 

“Lambert, _if the yard is covered in snow, it might blow up the keep you’ve spent the last two and a half weeks cleaning_.” 

“...Right.” 

Vesemir rose and dunked his implements in a bucket of salt and snow melt. 

“Grab a broom. I’ll be out in an hour. Chin up, pup - once Eskel’s back, you’ll get a break from Geralt’s mooning.”

It was Geralt’s turn to splutter with indignation as Lambert smirked. 

“I’d expect half arse barbs from Lambert, but now you?” 

“You’re not denying it.” His brother said in a sing-song voice over his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, and the only thing half arse about me is -”

“Out!” 

Vesemir’s order was punctuated by the hawk’s screech, as she was apparently done with whatever poultice she’d been offered. Lambert smacked Geralt upside the head, avoiding retribution with a pirouette and skipping down the corridor. Geralt proved unwilling to take such an assault lightly, and took off in pursuit. Threats of retribution echoed along the stone walls, eventually leaving their teacher alone. Vesemir sighed.

“Those boys will be the death of me.” 

The hawk screeched in agreement. 

“Seems like pushing a boulder uphill, sweeping in this misery.” Lambert grunted. “How did Eskel get stuck that far south anyway?”

Geralt could do nothing but shrug. A sigh slipped from his lips and became a shower of mist in the air as the humidity froze before his very eyes. Half remembered words came to the fore of his mind. 

“Beats me. He never was the brightest pixie at the bottom of the garden.” 

“I’ve known you for coming on a century.” Lambert leaned on his broom to regard his brother. “But you’ve come out with more poetry this last fortnight than in any of those years.”

 _Damnit, Jaskier_.

Geralt paused to consider this. Truthfully, that was because for most of his time knowing Lambert, he’d barely spoken to anyone who hadn’t on some level wanted him dead. It was difficult to make idle chit chat with an innkeeper who spat in his food, or a griffin that was trying to gut him. Even mage’s regarded him with disdain, or worse, pity. So why bother?

“Maybe I’m ill. Could be related to the back pain I’m having from having to carry your weight as well as my own.” 

Lambert muttered darkly under his breath and debated shooting a quick Ard his brother’s way. However, he relented upon seeing how close they were to clearing the yard, and jerked his head in the direction of the keep. 

“C’mon. You can woo me with tales of princesses and knights in front of the fire before our pixie gets here. Or maybe a limerick”

“ _Lambert, Lambert, what a prick_ …”

Dusk closed swiftly around them, light leaching from the sky with every passing heartbeat. The brothers and Vesemir stood to the north end of the yard in anticipation, sharing a comfortable silence. Almost unconsciously, Geralt sniffed at the air. It was a habit he’d never break, learning more from being downwind than his own two eyes could ever tell him. When on the path, he could smell weather patterns, the musk of a horse, whether water was stagnant or free flowing. He'd even admit, on occasion, the faintest suggestions of human emotion. 

It was not infallible, he knew that, but it did come in handy. Just about anyone could smell drink on the town lush, and his senses took it one step further - able to smell the stink of sweat and fear, the salty prickle of sadness or despair… even, he’d swear, the tang of happiness and exuberance. It was rare, true. Not many people would express joy when he was within scenting range. But sometimes, just sometimes, it would be there. 

He wondered if he would have that scent when he was reunited with Jaskier. 

The thought was banished the moment it entered his head by a thunderous boom that seemed to shake the flagstones he stood upon. The wind shifted and completely changed direction, pulling with a sucking sound into the middle of the courtyard. A ripple in the air, barely a shimmer, hovered four feet above the ground and grew from the size of an apple, to a pumpkin, further and further until it was the size of a wide door. It was like an expanding disk of water - translucent, distorting the world behind it in eye watering ways. 

Then, through the chaos, stepped a pair of figures. 

“About time, pup!” Vesemir shouted, stepping forward. The brothers followed suit. 

“You’ll forgive me eventually.” Came the dry response from the figure on the left - Eskel. His face became clearer through the distortion and broke into a smile. “Good to be home.”

The figure by his side - a young looking woman, with loose blonde hair and gaily coloured shirt - held an outstretched hand behind her, clearly directing her power towards the arcane doorway. 

“You weren’t kidding when you said it was cold.” She cursed and lowered her hand. In keeping with her movements the portal began to shrink, slowly collapsing in on itself, leaving nothing but a line of ash in its wake. 

Geralt and Lambert stepped forward and dragged Eskel into a hug, grinning into one another’s shoulders as the brother’s in arms reunited. Vesemir clapped Eskel’s shoulder and waved to the magician. 

“You’ve done Eskel here a favour. Surprised you helped him on such short notice.”

Vesemir was fishing. He was trying to find out what exactly the pup had bargained for such a quick passage back halfway across the continent. Mages were never cheap. 

“I’ve done you all a favour, looking at it.” The sorceress futilely wrapped her arms across her chest, not that the red lace would do much to ward off the northern chill. 

Eskel drew back from the embrace. The wind whipped his hair back from his face, exposing the deep scar that ran from his eye socket to his jaw. More importantly though, it showed his smile, his elation, his relief. He looked like a man who hadn’t expected to see home again, but by sheer dumb luck and circumstance, he had. The insight Geralt gleaned from the single expression made him want to pull Eskel closer still, to ground him and prove to both of them that he had made it. 

“Vesemir. This is Keira. We bartered one favour for another and -”

“And got your boy home, yes.” Keira interrupted, eyeing the four of them. “Though _why_ you would choose to spend a winter here escapes me. It’s fucking freezing.”

“Weather not suit you, m’lady?” Lambert jabbed. “If you can escape your courtly duties for a while, we’d be more than happy to extend some northern hospitality.” Sarcasm dripped from his words, a sentiment she was all too happy to return.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Keira, despite being several inches shorter, somehow seemed to look down her nose at the witcher. “But whilst it’s no court, I do have a fire of my own to tend to.” 

She inclined her head in a short bow to Vesemir, who stepped forward to hand her a bundled up cloak. 

“I believe she’s yours. Fed her and fixed her up nice, just give her a day off.” 

“How sweet.” Keira stroked the beak of the hawk nestled within the warm fabric. “Your hospitality won’t be forgotten.” The statement would be well intended from another mouth, but from hers it sounded not unlike a threat. Looking up from her bird, she fixed her gaze on Eskel and drew up her free hand to create her means of a return journey. 

“Take care, Eskel. If we see eachother again, it’ll be too soon.” 

“Yeah, yeah, off you go, you straw haired witch.” 

They shared an oddly genuine smile, clearly at home with the jest, nodding to one another as the chaos stirred in the courtyard once more. The four witchers stood in line with one another to watch her work and Eskel tipped her a salute as she stepped through. 

And then, silence. 

For the first time in days, the air felt still. The magic dissipated, the snow ceased, even the wind eased. The four stood together and seemed to exhale weeks worth of tension in a single breath. 

“You really ought to tell us how you convinced such a pretty looking serpent to do you a favour, Esk.” 

“I rather think I don’t.” Eskel shifted the weight of his pack from one shoulder to the other. “Can we get inside now? I’m dying for a drink that doesn’t smell like bathwater.”

“C’mon. There’s some Ardent in the kitchens we can crack open now there’s more of us to enjoy it.” Vesemir led the group towards the doors to the keep, drawing his cloak further around him. Eskel self consciously ruffled his fringe back over the scarred side of his face, a force of habit as deeply ingrained as Geralt’s constant scenting. “What in Nehaleni’s name were you doing in Sodden so late in the year?” 

“Divines, if I told you -” He managed a wink at Geralt. “It’s a story you wouldn’t believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in this chapter, folks - I managed to mess up my hand quite badly and haven't been able to type for nearly a week. Thank you for your patience, your time, and most importantly for being you. 
> 
> Have your selves a wonderful Christmas if you're that way inclined!


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